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Not Mercedes Material: Pontiac G8 GXP/Mercedes SL550

When I was in L.A. pitching a reality show based on my book The Gay Uncle’s Guide to Parenting, one of my collaborators was a fellow I’ll call Raymond. More commonly referred to as Grimsley (not his real last name either), he was a formidable gent: 6’5”, a deuce and a half, shaved-headed, and unsmiling. I reveled in the contrast. Aside from our physical differences, though he was to be the producer of my show, he would often begin our meetings with statements like: “I have three little boys, and when I first heard about this book, I thought: What the fuck? I’m going to listen to some gay guy who doesn’t even have kids?” I supposed this was an old Hollywood trick—up until the last of our nine rejections came in, at which point I determined that it was (a) ad hoc, (b) a desperate attempt at differentiation from the common development fodder in which the participants agree on the basic premise of the program, and (c) evidence of his hatred of me, children, and the gays. What does all this have to do with cars? Well, Grimsley was in the market for a new vehicle.

“What are you currently in?” I asked him, after revealing my role as the mincing author of this column. “Chrysler 300 Hemi,” he said. I nodded. This is an imposing, powerful, rear-wheel-drive American sedan, like something Kim Jong-il would drive if he were a Detroit City Councilman. Given this, Grimsley’s stature, and his derogatory statements about the weak nature of his assistant’s piece-of-shit Toyota, I figured he wasn’t looking to swap into a hybrid or ’80s Mercedes bio-diesel conversion like most of the other people I knew in L.A. “How about a Pontiac G8 GXP?” I suggested. This is an imposing, powerful, rear-wheel-drive American sedan, like something Jason Statham would drive if he were Mickey Rourke in the domestic remake of The Transporter. Grimsley torqued his mouth into a menacing sneer. (Did I mention that he was producing a torture-porn show called Hot Girls in Scary Places, set in an abandoned mental institution?) “I know I’m not exactly Mercedes material,” he said. “But I’m not going to drive a fucking Pontiac.”

And therein lies the rub. Because, despite the fact that it’s based off a balanced imported platform, powered by the growling V-8 from the Corvette, handsome in a delicious pro-hockey-forward kind of way, and one of the most compelling four-doors I’ve ever driven, the G8 suffers from what marketers call “an image problem.” Virtually no one has heard of it. And those who have turn up their noses at the brand’s reputation for producing decades of shit-ass, plastic-clad product. “Pontiac still makes cars?” my friends and colleagues jeered when I praised the muscle sedan. Well, they don’t anymore, since GM just killed off this division. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t purchase your GXP now. Given the desperation of our largest domestic manufacturer, I’m willing to bet you could put down whatever you’re able to shake off the kids at the local bus stop, and I think Congress just passed a bill that’ll cover your monthly payment so long as you homestead a foreclosed cul-de-sac in Indio. I promise a smile whenever you get behind the wheel (except perhaps when gassing up).

Mercedes SL550

The folks at Pontiac had another top-tier journo booked into the G8 during the tail end of my time in Chicago where I was piloting it, so come mid-week, I had to swap it out for a $110,000 Mercedes convertible. Though the Pontiac was more engaging to drive, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get more respect in the flagship Benz. “Nice car,” said the city’s valets. “It’s not ours,” my colleague interjected, deflating my glory. (And I’m not her husband, I’d add in my mind. Her real husband is short and schlubby.) The parking guys would shrug. “Don’t tell us that. Just enjoy it.”

I took their advice. Though my idea of enjoying a car like this involved picking up my journalist friend Shane, retracting the traffic-stopping folding hardtop, and driving out to the public high school where his wife Sunny teaches so we could lecture the students who run the paper on what it means to be a “writer.” In order to get to the MAS Academy in Little Village—a working-class, Latino community on the west side—we had to drive through North Lawndale, one of the city’s roughest neighborhoods. “If you look at the interactive crime report map for this area,” Shane said from the hushed confines of the air-conditioned passenger seat, “you don’t see individual incidents. You just see a mass of icons covering the entire area. Assault, rape, burglary, murder, vehicle theft.” I squeezed the lemon through the next traffic signal. “Seriously. What are the odds we get carjacked here?” My friend glanced around. He was working on a story about a bank robber who lived in this neighborhood. “I’d say, 50/50. No. More like 70/30.” He cackled. “But worse than that, driving this car through this neighborhood, we might get stopped by the police on suspicion of drug trafficking.” Swiveling my head in search of cops, I couldn’t help but notice the assortment of local buildings: a classic Chicago mix of buff brick, glass block, and curvy stucco. There was something strangely captivating about all of it—likely the preponderance of liquor stores and fried fish places.

“That’s easier to get out of,” I countered. “We’ll just tell them that we’re a couple of gay guys looking to buy up this whole area.”